


Quiet in the Lines of You

by entertheinferno



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entertheinferno/pseuds/entertheinferno
Summary: “I always knew you’d ruin me, but not like this.”
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 38





	Quiet in the Lines of You

**Author's Note:**

> scene meant to work for a different fic i've been working on that didn't work with the timeline. ended up quite a bit more demure and a lot less raunchy than intended. 
> 
> not much else to say other than i believe les amis are portrayed as distinctly less chaotic people than is well deserved, and i've not been able to stop thinking about how horrifying they would be if they were all attending a small liberal arts college in the rural united states. 
> 
> entirely unbeta'd and very briefly edited before posting blah blah. truly an exercise in self-indulgence. let me know if the state of the world has also sent you back into the spiral hell of this fandom, i've got a lot of thoughts.

They were meant to go for one drink. Of all plans, this was the easiest to foil. Enjolras, with Courfeyrac and Combeferre dutifully following, had trekked from their rundown house to the bar in the village with singular intent, to drink and revel and leave in a timely fashion. 

Friday nights at Corinthe were usually quiet. In the summer the crowd dwindled to the upperclassmen who stayed through the summer for work or for friends. The weekend rabble was reduced to townies and determined students, pretending at distinction from the campus crowds. 

These are the nights Enjolras likes best, and the only environment that can truly compel him to the bar. The patio is lit with fairy lights and colored by the haze of cigarette smoke and quiet laughter. The drinks flow liberally and the summer air is thick with mosquitoes. 

He’s had a bad day, and a long one, and if there is anywhere to be outside of himself for a moment, it is here. There are vague plans between the three of them to go home, after the first few rounds, to smoke and watch Jeopardy, or something equally inane. For now, they post up at a large patio table, gathering empty chairs from the other tables, expecting the arrival of other friendly faces. Courfeyrac and Combeferre hold up the conversation, arguing about a reading from a poli sci class from the previous semester. Enjolras is content to look on, fond and quiet. 

It is unusual that he drinks faster than the two of them, but when he picks up his pint glass, not long after their arrival, he is surprised to find it empty. 

By now Marius and Cosette have arrived, their hands entwined, and as Enjolras stands, he sees Bahorel and Feuilly coming out from inside the bar to join the group. 

“I’m going to get another -- anyone else?” He tips his glass towards his friends. Everyone shakes their heads and Enjolras slips away.

It’s nearly empty inside, Valjean manning the bar alone, evidently having relinquished Bahorel from his duties for the night. As Enjolras approaches the bar the front door swings open and Grantaire skulks inside, his eyes downcast. He looks worse than usual, his dark hair tangled with sweat, and pushed up under a baseball cap that he wears low, shadowing his eyes. He doesn’t seem to notice Enjolras and slides into a seat at the far end of the bar. 

Valjean goes to him first and Enjolras hesitates, considering whether or not to pretend he has not noticed Grantaire’s entrance. It would be easy to do so. 

They are friends, after all this time, though he begrudges the fact when it’s brought up. Though their antagonism is notorious, as of late Enjolras has felt a sense of guilt in his inability to untangle his feelings about Grantaire. He is at turns an infuriating nuisance and one of the few people who can manage to bring Enjolras back to earth in moments when he is furthest away from tangible reality. He decides, without giving himself a chance to regret it, that Grantaire might be what he needs tonight. 

He forces himself to be confident as he moves across the sticky floor of the bar, timing his steps so as to arrive beside Grantaire as Valjean has turned away. He places his hand carefully on Grantaire’s shoulder when he is close enough. Grantaire turns to look at him, his eyes shadowed with tired bruises, his mouth turned down in an unusual frown. 

“Hello, Grantaire.” Enjolras squeezes his shoulder once, tightly.

Grantaire reaches up to lay his hand on top of Enjolras’s, and he squeezes back, his eyes brightening. 

“Of all the people I could’ve seen tonight, coming through that godforsaken door, you were the only one I wanted.” Grantaire’s penchant for theatrical sincerity, usually scorned, is appreciated tonight, and Enjolras finds himself smiling. 

“Move over.” 

Grantaire obliges him, sliding to the stool nearest the wall so Enjolras can perch beside him. Valjean returns with a rocks glass full of rye and looks at Enjolras expectantly. 

“Another of the same,” Enjolras says, sliding his empty pint glass across the bar with his money. Valjean takes both and returns briskly. 

“What’s up?” Grantaire tips his glass towards Enjolras.

“Long day.” Enjolras takes a long pull from his drink. 

“You can say that again.” The heaviness in Grantaire’s voice, far from unusual, is significantly more pronounced than Enjolras expects. “I wasn’t planning on coming out tonight but the bus was on break when I caught it, they’d only drop me in town.” 

Grantaire is typically a constant at the glossy bar at the Corinthe. His guaranteed presence has, in the past, been a deterrent for Enjolras, who has of late not had the energy to engage with Grantaire’s particular brand of brittleness. Tonight though, he feels a phantom pang of disappointment, thinking that he might not have seen Grantaire tonight. 

“I’m glad you had to stop, then,” Enjolras says, bumping his shoulder against Grantaire’s. 

Grantaire’s eyes flash briefly but before Enjolras can attempt to decode it, it’s replaced with his practiced, flirtatious calm. 

“Tell me about your day, ange.”

It is easy then, to speak to one another. Enjolras is honest. He whines to Grantaire about the stress at work, the struggle of getting together enough money for rent working at a local non-profit, but struggles to find a way to the thing that is sitting the heaviest with him, unsure if it ought to be broached. 

Grantaire does him a favor and brings it up. “I’m surprised to see you without him tonight.” 

He means Julien, the graduate student Enjolras has been pursuing since February. He was meant to see him this weekend, to take the train into the city and be wined and dined and fucked, used as a tool to placate his endless ego. 

“We-- I called it off last night.” Enjolras looks down at his beer, already half gone, unsure if he wants to go on. He finds himself continuing, without really deciding. “I was tired of feeling like he was never going to tell me what he really wanted. To be his toy, something to be picked up and used when it was convenient, was pleasurable at first but has become exhausting. I’ve wasted months on him. It’s time to move on.” 

It’s not even the full extent of his frustrations, but it is enough to feel relieving. 

“If he’d been here with you dangling off his arm I would’ve left,” Grantaire says, pressing against Enjolras. For a moment their sides are flush to one another, and Enjolras feels a flash of heat run through him. Surprisingly welcome, given his company. 

“In fact,” Grantaire grins, suddenly wolfish, and downs the last of his rye. “I probably would’ve done something rash.” 

“I think I would’ve liked that,” Enjolras says, and he feels himself flush. 

When Grantaire’s eyes flash this time there is a challenge behind it, a familiar intensity. Enjolras is edging into territory that they have left untouched for four years, but when he feels his stomach swoop he finds that his desire to put distance between them has all but disappeared. Though Grantaire’s performative interest has quieted to background static since their freshman year, it’s never quite faded. Enjolras finds himself very thankful, in this moment, that it might still be present. 

“Tell me what’s on your mind. You seem tired.” In his own way, Enjolras means for this to be an opening, of sorts. An offer of truce and an invitation. 

Grantaire takes it. They trade complaints, and Enjolras listens dutifully as Grantaire talks about work, his car troubles, the lack of financial support the studio department is offering for him as they enter their senior year. 

It is easy for Enjolras to hum at the right points, to divert his full attention to Grantaire. To hear him speak on this softens his coarseness, the tactile frustrations of his life becoming understandable. It has been a long time, Enjolras thinks, since he has allowed himself this much time with Grantaire as his friend, and not as an opportunity to have an ideological enemy. He is reminded, as Grantaire talks about kitchen politics and his struggle to afford materials, that he likes Grantaire a great deal. That their relationship has always been rooted in some kind of mutual admiration, even if Enjolras’s has been more well hidden. Though he would be hesitant to admit it to a stranger, or even their friends on his worst days, Grantaire is intelligent, cogent, and considered. His devil-may-care nihilism betrays a young man who has lived a hard life and found it wanting, who is doubtful of people’s abilities to combat that which is designed to harm. In many ways, his skepticism is a useful counterpoint for Enjolras, a good thing to hear. 

By the time Grantaire’s voice has faded into quiet, both their glasses are empty, and Enjolras knows that the next bus will arrive in minutes. He wants Grantaire to stay. He asks. 

“Come drink with us. The busses run late tonight, and you can stay with us if you miss it.” He casts his eyes past Grantaire’s face, landing on one of the framed photographs of Paris that hangs, framed, on the wall. It is an unusual offer from him, he knows, but he hopes that Grantaire will take it. That perhaps he has not missed his opportunity to chase the heat behind Grantaire’s eyes. If Grantaire stays, he suspects that the couch will not be slept on. The prospect makes him jittery. 

“Alright,” Grantaire says, easy as anything, his face twisted into a lopsided grin. 

When they return to their friends, drinks in hand, Courfeyrac shouts his welcome at both of them. “O captain, my captain! The people are exulting!” Enjolras feels himself blush. Beside him, Grantaire waves his middle finger at their friend. They steal the last two seats, their chairs pushed close together to fit around the table. 

They slip into the conversation easily and the night goes on. Enjolras half listens to everything, teases Combeferre and Courfeyrac about their argument, which has escalated into an incomprehensible spar customary only to them. It has become so ridiculous as to resemble an Abbott and Costello bit, their jabs broken up by laughter as they struggle to stay in character. 

All of this and Grantaire beside him, the tension in his shoulders from before draining slowly. He’s moved his chair to sit as close to Enjolras as possible. Enjolras is acutely aware of the warmth of him, the broadness of his shoulders, his hand, which brushes Enjolras’s own every time one of them reaches for their glass. 

It is a nothing kind of touch, and yet it sends sparks running, erratic, up and down Enjolras’s spine. 

Then Grantaire’s foot presses up against the back of Enjolras’s calf, lazy and half casual, and Enjolras knows he is gone. That the impulse to make an uncharacteristic decision is one he will not be able to resist. 

He glances over at Grantaire. The other man’s expression is demure to the point of parody, and when he smiles crookedly at Enjolras, eyes cast down, his lashes are a sweep of shadow across his cheeks. 

“You have cigs?” He asks. 

Enjolras hums, tipping his head to the side to gesture. Before he can reach to take them out Grantaire is doing it for him, slipping his fingers into the pocket of Enjolras shirt, his touch lingering, and he steals the crumpled pack away, shaking out a slightly bent marb 100. 

“You want one?” Grantaire asks as if they’re his to offer and Enjolras nods. Grantaire shakes out another and reaches. Enjolras, without thinking, parts his lips and allows Grantaire to put the cigarette between them. His thumb brushes against Enjolras’s bottom lip like an afterthought. Enjolras almost bites the cigarette in half. 

“Careful,” Grantaire says, smirking. 

Enjolras doesn’t think he could turn blush more than he already is. 

Grantaire seems to take Enjolras’s flush as a cue to escalate. He throws himself into the conversation, and when Enjolras has relaxed, his cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers, he lets his hand fall on Enjolras’s thigh and fails to move it. Enjolras struggles not to look down at it incredulously. Grantaire’s posture is triumphant. None of their friends seem to notice any of the crimes against Enjolras’s propriety, so he is left to suffer alone. 

He realizes he is outclassed quite immediately. Of all the games he and Grantaire have played with one another, this is the one he is doomed to fail. Grantaire, taking advantage of his upper hand, and casting a sidelong glance at Enjolras to gauge his reaction, slides his hand higher up on Enjolras’s thigh, and begins to trace feather-light patterns. It reminds Enjolras of being a child when he and Combeferre would close their eyes and trace words into each other’s palms. 

Enjolras drinks his beer, trying not to give away any of his building frustration. Grantaire just smiles wider and doesn’t look at him. 

He thinks that he’s going to be trapped in this hell for eternity, attempting to force his arousal away by sheer willpower alone, and then Courfeyrac slaps Combeferre in the face. 

Everyone at the table erupts into shrieks. Enjolras has no idea what’s going on. Combeferre is laughing hysterically, his cheek bright red, and Courfeyrac looks both elated and mortified. Whatever took their bit to this level, Enjolras will never know. Grantaire has gone slightly pale, but he’s laughing too, and he turns to Enjolras, leaning in close. Their foreheads are nearly touching. Enjolras tries to keep his breathing even. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Grantaire asks, laughter slipping out between his words. 

“I think perhaps we’ve missed something,” Enjolras admits, his amusement beating out his confusion. He meets Grantaire’s eyes and holds them there. “I’m convinced none of this would’ve happened if you weren’t here.” 

Feeling bold he reaches out and puts a hand against Grantaire’s neck, feeling the rush of his pulse under his skin. Grantaire’s hand is still on his thigh, his fingers pressing gently into the soft flesh, and his fingers itch to curl up into Grantaire’s hair, unruly at the nape of his neck. Grantaire slides his hand up Enjolras’s side, under his oversized shirt, his fingertips brushing Enjolras’s ribcage. 

“It feels as if anything were possible tonight.” 

Enjolras, instead of answering, just slides his hand up and cups Grantaire’s face, strokes his thumb across Grantaire’s cheekbone, sweeps across the sallow skin beneath his eyes. Grantaire turns his face, minutely, kisses the palm of Enjolras’s hand, and then as if they are not in front of most of their friends, in an extremely public place, puts two of Enjolras’s fingers into his mouth, presses his teeth against them just hard enough to leave a mark, and turns away. 

Enjolras thinks, perhaps, he might never breathe again. 

Impossibly, none of their friends have noticed any of what has just transpired, too enraptured by whatever the fuck that display between Combeferre and Courfeyrac was, and too drunk on top of it. Enjolras feels like he might break into hysterics. Grantaire’s hand returns to his thigh, the weight of it gentle, reassuring, and impossibly unassuming. 

Enjolras decides they need to leave immediately. 

“Help me bring the empties in,” Enjolras says, standing abruptly, and dislodging Grantaire’s hand. 

Grantaire’s flirtatious bravado slips into something more familiar. Something anxious and anticipating scorn. Enjolras doesn’t have the words to soothe it. Instead, he piles as many glasses into his hands as he can carry and kicks at Grantaire’s chair until he does the same. Marius, gallantly, offers to help, and it takes all of Enjolras’s willpower not to snap at him. 

He manages a terse “we’ve got it” which, at least, makes Grantaire laugh. 

They stumble inside and set the glasses down at the end of the bar. Grantaire’s adopted an affected casualness, and when his hands are free he jams them deep into the pockets of his ratty jeans. 

“Getting pretty late.” He manages, taking his hat off to run his fingers through his hair, before pulling it back on. Enjolras wants to push him against the bar and kiss him senseless. He feels insane. 

“You could crash at ours,” Enjolras says, debating whether or not he should step closer or stay far away. He ends up just looking down at his and Grantaire’s feet. 

“Wouldn’t want to impose.” Grantaire shrugs, looking at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “Bus’ll come soon anyway.” 

“You wouldn’t impose. I’d like it if you did.” Enjolras says, glancing up to try and make eye contact and failing, staring instead at a hole near the collar of Grantaire’s shirt.

Grantaire, at least, has some grace. He steps closer, risks reaching out to tilt Enjolras’s face so that he is forced to look at him. Enjolras wants to take his fingers in his mouth so he doesn’t have to speak. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and he is more serious than Enjolras has ever seen him. “Tell me what you want.” 

“I want-- I want you to stay. Over. To stay at our house.” Enjolras is a dull needle on a record player that can’t catch. “I -- Grantaire,” His voice sounds desperate in his ears. “I want you.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says and he lets go of Enjolras’s face, steps back. “Do you want to tell them we’re leaving?” 

“I’ll text.” 

The walk back to the house is just long enough for another cigarette. Grantaire still has his pack. He takes out one for each of them and they walk in silence, their shoulders bumping occasionally as they go. Enjolras can’t tell if the roiling in his stomach is nausea or anticipation.

As they approach the house, Enjolras breaks the silence. “Want a beer? I think Courfeyrac has Genesee.” 

Grantaire laughs, his cigarette dangling half-finished from his hand. “Sure, let’s sit outside, it’s nice.” 

Enjolras hands Grantaire his cigarette and unlocks the door, practically running to the kitchen once he knows Grantaire can’t see him. He feels adolescent. 

When he comes back out, Grantaire is lounged on the shallow front steps, staring up at the sky. 

Enjolras perches next to him, hands him the beer. Grantaire gives him back the cigarette, and Enjolras stubs it out, tucking it into a hole in the concrete steps. 

“So, you gonna invite me in?” Grantaire asks, teasingly. 

Enjolras just hums and sips his beer.

“Ange.” Grantaire turns to look at him, his eyes soft. “It’s okay.” And then, unopened beer still in hand, he kisses Enjolras. 

When their lips touch the swooping in his stomach settles to a low rumble of desire. Though the kiss is chaste it satisfies some of what Enjolras wanted. Or, he thought so, until Grantaire is pulling him to his feet and crowding him against the door, his hands skating across Enjolras’s stomach, his mouth pressing open and insistent. 

Enjolrals feels his back hit the door jam, a spark of sensation that mixes uncomfortably into an unfamiliar kind of pain-pleasure, and he must make some kind of noise because Grantaire backs off, putting a bit of space between them. His eyes are wild, his hands still caught up in the fabric of Enjolras’s shirt. Enjolras is sure that with one word from him, Grantaire would slip into the night. That it would be as if nothing had ever happened. The thought makes him shiver.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says quietly. “I need you to tell me that you want this.” There’s a thread of desperation in Grantaire’s voice, in the way that his grip flexes on Enjolras’s chest. 

“I want you, Grantaire,” Enjolras says it because he knows it is true, and because it makes Grantaire gasp as if someone had been holding him by the throat. Enjolras leans in, nipping sharply at Grantaire’s bottom lip, smiling at the way Grantaire’s eyes go hazy. 

“Take me inside.” 

Enjolras bends down to pick up Grantaire’s beer, tucks both under his arm, and lets Grantaire open the door. 

The house is dark and Enjolras leads Grantaire up the stairs, pushing him gently. Suddenly he has the upper hand in the situation, though he has no idea how things have switched. Grantaire seems nervous, glancing back at him as they tramp up the stairs on unsteady feet as if to make sure Enjolras is still there. 

“If you look back once more I may yet become Eurydice.” He says, teasingly, when Grantaire’s eyes fall on him again. 

When they reach the top of the stairs Grantaire crowds himself against Enjolras again, tucking his fingers into Enjolras’s belt loops to pull him closer, to join their bodies at the hips. 

“Promise me you’ll let me look, for now, so I can leave at least with an image of you.” He presses his face into Enjolras neck, mouth open, leaving a hot trail of kisses down the column of his throat. 

The rawness in Grantaire’s voice makes Enjolras shiver again. He moves them, blindly, towards his bedroom, kicking open the closed door so he can back the two of them towards his bed without breaking their embrace. 

He lets himself fall back onto the bed, pulling Grantaire on top of him, and he finally has what he wants, the full weight of Grantaire’s body against him. He rolls his hips up and presses against Grantaire, catches his mouth so he can kiss him like he’s wanted to since he had the audacity to grope his thigh in front of their friends. 

He runs his tongue along Grantaire’s teeth, coaxing his mouth open so he can taste him, can map out the shape and feel of him in his lap, in his hands, against his mouth. Grantaire makes soft sounds against his mouth, as vocal here as anywhere else. When Enjolras slips his hands under the hem of Grantaire’s ratty shirt, moving to strip it off, Grantaire pauses, sitting back on his haunches. It’s distracting, to have his weight squarely on Enjolras’s dick, but there’s something nervous behind Grantaire’s eyes so Enjolras holds himself still. 

“I-- Hm.” Grantaire exhales, running a hand through his mussed hair. His hat was lost somewhere between the door and the bed. “Can we put something on, in the background or something?” He smiles sheepishly, his eyes darting between Enjolras and his own hands, which he holds in front of himself, almost disbelieving. 

“Like, a show?” Enjolras is confused. He feels like he’s done something wrong, somehow. Grantaire must catch the unease in Enjolras’s posture because he hurries to overcorrect, brushing his knuckles over Enjolras’s cheekbone.

“God.” Grantaire is flushed, the color creeping beneath the collar of his shirt, and Enjolras wants him to stop talking, wants to trace the blush with his tongue instead of having this conversation.

“I think I might need to just do this like it’s not you so that I don’t freak out,” Grantaire says, finally. “Like, so it can be good and I won’t scare you.” 

Enjolras sits up fully then, taking Grantaire’s hands in his own, and shifting so that Grantaire is sitting on the bed, no longer on top of him. 

“Grantaire you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” He says, trying for diplomacy, even as he feels his dick pressing against the fly of his jeans. 

“No, God. Enjolras, no.” Grantaire turns their hands so Enjolras’s palm is facing up and presses a kiss to the center of it, gentle. “I want you. You must know, you’ve known for so long. I want you too much, is the problem, and if this is your rebound from Julien I’ll joyously take to the role but I just. To give you that it would be impossible to be myself.” 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, softly, and when Grantaire looks at him there is real fear behind his eyes, and Enjolras feels a pang of guilt. He can promise Grantaire nothing beyond this night, he knows it, but he knows this night is what he wants, and he can promise friendship beyond it. He doesn’t know what to say. 

“I did not ask you here to be a body for me, Grantaire. I want you. I can promise nothing beyond that but I can promise that you are here because you are you, not because of anything else.” 

He has to resist the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, to wait for Grantaire to leave. He expects to feel the mattress dip, for Grantaire to gather himself and go. Instead, Grantaire climbs back into his lap, cups Enjolras’s face in his hands. 

“I always knew you’d ruin me, but not like this,” Grantaire says, but his eyes are teasing, and the heat has returned to them, his mouth curved in the gentlest of smiles, and Enjolras has no choice but to kiss him again. 

This time, he lets Enjolras take his shirt off, raises his arms so Enjolras can strip it from him, and trail his hands over the fine, bruised lines of Grantaire’s body. He’s smaller than Enjolras but huskier, bulky from boxing and physical labor, his chest covered generously in dark hair. He twitches when Enjolras’s thumb catches on his nipple, the pierced one, and Enjolras smiles against his mouth, trying to catch the sound. 

It’s quick business then. Grantaire fumbles with the buttons of Enjolras’s shirt but succeeds, at least, in getting the first few undone before he gives up and cajoles Enjolras into letting him pull it, roughly, over his head. He threads his fingers in Enjolras’s hair, letting his mouth wander from his lips to the bolt of his jaw. His mouth feels like a brand, tracing paths of sparks to all of Enjolras’s most sensitive spots without needing to ask. When he sucks a kiss that will inevitably leave a mark behind Enjolras’s ear he can feel his hips buck wildly. Grantaire just presses back, grinding against him slow and teasing.

“Tell me what you want,” Enjolras says, his fingers teasing over the button of Grantaire’s jeans, over the line of his cock, straining against the fabric. 

“Just let me,” Grantaire says, pushing Enjolras’s hands away. 

He undoes the button of Enjolras’s trousers, slides them off in a fluid motion, low enough so that Enjolras can kick them off. Then he moves down, pressing fleeting kisses against bare skin until he’s settled at the foot of the bed, holding Enjolras by the ankle, looking at him with reverence. His eyes are so clear, so controlled. Enjolras feels entirely unmoored, unable to think of anything besides Grantaire and the sensation of his mouth on him. 

He still has his socks on and Grantaire rolls them down slowly, his hands gentle, the touch so light it would be ticklish if not for the shocks of arousal that it sends up Enjolras’s spine. When he’s thrown them into a dark corner of the room Grantaire leans down and kisses each of Enjolras’s ankles, slowly moving back up his body. His pace is leisurely, almost aimless. Enjolras is so hard that there is a dark spot at the front of his shorts, his cock throbbing against even the slight pressure of the fabric. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Grantaire says, from somewhere around Enjolras’s shins. His eyes shine in the dark. 

Enjolras’s breath hitches. Grantaire bends his leg, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the crook of his knee before sliding further up, settling himself. His breath is hot over Enjolras’s cock. It’s too much, and he hasn’t even really touched him. 

“Grantaire -- wait.” Grantaire looks up at him, brows furrowed slightly. He shifts as if to move back, to give Enjolras space, but Enjolras stops him with a hand in his hair, tangled near the crown of his head. 

“Will you - I.” He’s not really sure what he’s trying to ask for but it seems as if Grantaire knows. He shifts back, sitting up on his heels. 

“Let me take care of you,” Grantaire says, leaning forward to press a brief kiss to the corner of Enjolras’s mouth. The simplicity of it leaves Enjolras trembling. 

Grantaire sheds his clothes quickly, letting them slide off the bed. He prepares himself quickly, his blunt fingers slipping inside himself. Enjolras watches, palming himself through his shorts. 

“Sit up a bit,” Grantaire says, pushing against Enjolras’s shoulders gently. He kisses Enjolras’s neck when he pulls down his shorts.  
He settles himself in Enjolras’s lap, taking his cock in measures. It seems nearly effortless except for how his thighs tremble under Enjolras’s hands, the sheen of sweat on his chest. Enjolras kisses him gracelessly, tries to keep the sounds that are wrenched from him quiet, but Grantaire pulls them from him with his mouth and with the movement of his hips. 

In the dark of his spare bedroom the world is reduced to their two bodies, the movement of Grantaire’s hips, his hands braced on Enjolras’s shoulders. 

Enjolras comes biting a mark into the joint of Grantaire’s shoulder, and Grantaire follows with Enjolras’s hand on his cock as Enjolras chases the aftershocks through the tight, wet heat of his body. 

They collapse on top of each other, Grantaire curled against Enjolras chest. Enjolras feels as if his whole body is vibrating. 

“Don’t kick me out when we wake up,” Grantaire says, his eyes closed, his voice gruff with sleep and sex. 

Enjolras presses a kiss to the top of his head and promises to himself that he won’t.


End file.
